Flora had spent the day cleaning up. She picked at things, randomly, without a plan. Assembled the broken pieces of a vase into a pile as if she would one day glue them together, turned a chair back on its feet, returned a bolt of fabric to the shelf. Whatever she did, it was futile.

Night came. For a long time, she sat on her bed, exhausted and empty of desire, yet unable to lie down. Hunger tore at her gut, her throat was dry.

Once again, she descended the stairs to the shop. The sight of the deserted backroom, the girls' belongings, Siran's scarf half burnt in the fireplace, Anoush's cushion covered in urine, made her collapse on the floor and cry inconsolably until she fell asleep.

Hours passed before the muezzin called his flock to morning prayer. Flora woke with a start, her heart beating. In the blue space between night and day, time seemed to hold its breath as she willed herself to calm down.

She returned upstairs and washed her face and hands with cold water to clear her head, found a clean dress, and changed into it. Her hair was dirty and hopelessly tangled, she arranged it the best she could, and covered it with a bonnet. In a satchel, she packed the few belongings she could bring on the journey, a change of clothes, the black accountancy book as a memory of her achievements to help her through the rainy days that were sure to come. That would have to do. It was all she had.

On the shop counter, she found Jurad's knife where she had left it the day before. In the obscurity, its jewel incrusted handle looked like the jaws of a beast. She shuddered and turned her back on it.

After one last tour of her shop, she lost heart and collapsed on a chair. Tears burnt her eyes, and her chest compressed in pain.

"Flora," a familiar voice called out, piercing the silence. In the doorway stood Hélène.

Flora dropped her eyes and quickly slid off the chair to pick up a few of the gloves that lay scattered on the floor in a vain attempt to clean the mess. Hélène bent with her, picked up a few gloves which she placed on the counter, while her gaze swept over the vandalised shop. "William paid some street boys to do the job for him," she said cooly.

It didn't matter. Flora felt nothing, not even hatred for William. He had become like air to her, or like a speck of dust she could crush under her heel.

Neither said anything more, both searching for the right words.

"I was certain you would come back," Hélène said. "I've passed by every day, hoping to find you here. When you disappeared,...there were so many rumours about you, about the Crown Prince..."

"We married," Flora said flatly.

"Oh."

She felt Hélène's eager curiosity on her. There was no story, no words to explain what she had felt then, the force of it, the senselessness of resisting. "We left for Therapia," was all she could say.

"I heard that too." They exchanged a quick smile; Pera was a tiny fish pond.

"Well, here I am now," Flora said defiantly, and brushed away a strand of hair from her face.

Hélène blushed, there was a silence until she said: "You were wrong, you know. About our game." She shook her head. "It was never for my amusement. Without it, without you, my life -" Tears welled into her eyes. She passed her hands over her skirts and quickly looked away.

"I am leaving," Flora said hesitantly, and then, when Hélène responded only with a blink of the eye, she repeated it.

"Don't go," Hélène said at last. "It's what they want, to chase you away, to make you disappear. It's more comfortable, you are less of a threat, less of a thorn in the side. Don't give them the satisfaction. Stay, start again, please don't go."

Flora felt her heart ache and averted her gaze to hide her pain.

There was a new long silence while Hélène vaguely tried to straighten a rumpled glove. She crushed it in her hand and pushed it off the counter.

"Where will you go?"

"America perhaps."

A dreamy smile appeared on Hélène's lips. "And Hamid?"

Flora nodded, unable to speak, and brought a hand to her belly. Everything was complicated, her nerves strained, she could not explain her powerful emotions and contradictory thoughts, or the fears and doubts that consumed her. She hid her face in her hands, and in her distress, she would have tumbled to the floor if Hélène hadn't caught her in her arms.

"Oh, my darling Flora..." Hélène mumbled over and over.

After a long, tight embrace, when Flora had calmed down, Hélène tied the ribbon of Flora's bonnet under her chin and brought out a thick envelope from her purse. "I'm buying your shop."

Laughing, Flora gestured towards the rubble behind her. "I can't take your money, there's nothing to buy."

"Take it," Hélène said in a voice that refused all argument. "You will need it to start again. Follow you heart until you find happiness."

An ice-cold tension came over Flora. "What if I never do?"

"At least you'll have hoped and tried. You will have done what you wanted, and it will have been your choice. Whatever happens, I know you will land on your feet, stronger than before, fiercer, more vibrant and alive. The rest of us, the weak ones without courage to pursue freedom, we'll just wither away, we'll be winnowed out. Please, for my sake, take it."

Flora swallowed and accepted the envelope. Hélène kissed her on both cheeks, then reached her arm down to the satchel at her feet and handed it to her. "Don't forget me," her voice was small, strangled.

"I will come back."

"I'll be here."

They exchanged a smile. Flora quickly turned away, and in a trance, stepped into the street.

Once outside, she stood dazed for a moment before she started walking. A few years ago, she had stepped off the ship on the quays of Constantinople, a scared young woman, her insides hurting with grief, her trust in herself and in the future trampled in the mud. Not any more. Hélène was right, she would leave, but not disappear; she would rise again.

At the top of the Camondo stairs she stopped. The view took her breath away. The world was iridescent: minarets cut like silver lances through the hazy morning light, the white steamer in the bay glistened in the rising sun, the sparkling dresses of the women, the breezy birdsong, the flamboyant colours of fezzes, turbans, keffiyehs, billycock hats, soldiers' headwear, hurrying past her down the wide stairs, all in the same direction, she realised, towards Galata bridge.

At once, she felt the air nervous with excitement, and it made her uneasy. She followed the boisterous crowd down the stairs, unable to ignore the knot in her stomach. It hurt, as if she might split in two. Part of her wanted to hide on the steamer until Hamid arrived and they sailed away, but another part of her yearned to be swallowed up by the crowd, drifting along with it across the bridge.

In Stamboul, the mass of people spread out along the waterfront of the Golden Horn, which was lined with soldiers dressed in their finest uniforms. On the water, gentle waves sparkled in the sunlight, and out of the glittering reflections emerged a white and golden caique, rowed by more than a dozen oars.

Cheers from onlookers roared, and the flags of the stationary ships in the bay dipped their flags in salute. In the twilight under the crimson canopy sat a man – the Sultan.

As the caique made its way up the Golden Horn, the crowd followed. Eager to see, Flora let herself to be carried along until, finally, the mass could no longer advance. Soldiers blocked the streets to protect the carriages and retinue of noble dignitaries that waited for the Sultan to arrive.

New cheers announced the landing of the caique. At a snail's pace, a procession accompanied the Sultan from the quays towards the Mosque of Eyüp.

"What's happening?" Flora asked a woman selling watermelons.

The woman flashed a toothless smile and shook her head. Next to her, a young girl answered falteringly in French, "Our Padishah will be invested with the sword of Osman."

"Sultan Murad? I want to see him," Flora looked about desperately. "Where can I see him?"

The girl laughed. "Everyone wants to see him! But small people like us find the streets too narrow and crowded here. After the ceremony, the procession will follow the walls of Byzantium to the square of the Sublime Porte. That's where I will go to catch a glimpse of him."

The muezzin's undulating voice called the faithful to prayer, and all muezzins of the city, as well as across the whole of the empire, joined in.

A murmur went through the crowd: the procession advanced again, achingly slowly. From the middle of the crowd, all Flora could see was arms and hair and colourful hats. People were packed in shoulder to shoulder. All she could do was to let the human current carry her along until she could slip away, into a side street. From there, she made her way to the Square of the Sublime Porte.

When, hours later, the procession entered the square, it was already past mid-day. "They're coming, they're coming," people shouted long before it appeared. "Make way!"

Above the heads of the masses, Flora saw the fluttering green banner of the prophet which preceded the procession, and behind it, the plumes of the Albanian guards. Then a new wave of cheers swept through the crowd. "Long live the Padishah."

Growing frantic, she forced her way to the front of the crowd, but was shoved up against the stone of a plinth. She turned her head and looked up at a fountain. Collecting her skirt, she began to climb it. Her broken nails left smears of blood on the marble, but she made it just high enough to emerge above the craned necks of the crowd.

The procession wormed its way across the square. The green banner of the prophet followed by a mounted dervish in white gold lined robes, a double line of plumed infantry, and then the endless tail of dignitaries with their retinue on horseback or in carriages.

All of it vanished when her eyes fixed on him, astride his white horse bridled in gold, his slender person unadorned but for a simple red fez. One hand held the reins, the other clasped the sword hilt by his side.

Tears came to her eyes; despite all the people who surrounded him, Hamid looked alone. His eyes swept back and forth over the crowded square, old eyes, and strangely watchful. They snagged on the fountain, wavering. Then, across the sea of people, their eyes met. As the procession relentlessly approached, he held her gaze, his face white as death. He shifted in the saddle, tightened the grip on the reins, and shut his eyes as if to block out the burning sunlight.

When he looked again, there was something new in his gaze, or something she had not noticed before, something horrifying, an inextinguishable rancour which put her heart in her throat. His eyes seemed to her dark, darker than any human eyes, a darkness that was cold and heartless. She shivered and hugged the fountain.

With what seemed like deliberate effort, Hamid looked away, straight past her to the estrade of honour where the European dignitaries were seated. No, she wanted to call out, but her throat was dry, her eyes were dry.

She slid to the ground and, summoning her last bit of strength, exited the square, fighting against the movement of the crowd. Her movements were deliberate, she was calm and unfeeling. There was only the intense sun and, away from the masses of people, a shiftless tranquillity. Resolutely, she made her way through the narrow streets back to the waterfront, across Galata bridge to the harbour.

When she entered her cabin on the steamer, and found the small miniature painting from the yali resting on her cushion, her heart skipped a beat. She looked around, thinking he was there, but realised the impossibility of it.

As she picked up the miniature and clutched it to her breast, scarcely breathing, she knew that he was truly lost to her. If I had no other choice, if that's what I have to do for my child to live, then I hope I would find the strength. She wished she was at home with Siran and Anoush, she wished that William hadn't vandalised her shop, she wished she had not left for Therapia, she wished she had never met Hamid. She wished he was with her now, and for all eternity.

Gently, she tucked the painting into her luggage and made her way up on deck. The crew sung sea shanties as they hoisted the sails. Shouts and commands punctuated the rhythmic cadence of their movements, blocks clattered against masts and spars, canvas strained and creaked.

The sails had caught the wind and billowed outwards. From the double chimneys, large puffs of smoke rose, soft as feathers, lingered, then slowly dissolved. Along the rails, passengers waved goodbye to their loved ones on the quays of the harbour.

She settled by the railing, next to a couple with three children as the ship followed the coast out to sea, past Dolmabahçe Palace. All the glistening white of the marble stung her eyes, and she lifted her gaze to the clear blue sky, where a school of seagulls playfully sailed on the wind.

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Author's note

I think that, for Flora to have set out for Constantinople alone, she must have been something of an adventurer. She was in good company. In the 19th century, several women adventurers defied societal norms and embarked on journeys to the Orient, exploring lands that were considered exotic and mysterious to the Western world.

One of the most notable figures was Isabelle Eberhardt (1877-1904), a Swiss explorer who traveled extensively in North Africa, adopting local customs and immersing herself in Islamic culture. She disguised herself as a man and joined a Sufi order, writing about her experiences in her journals and short stories.

Another remarkable woman was Gertrude Bell (1868-1926), an English writer, archaeologist, and diplomat who played a significant role in shaping the modern Middle East. She traveled across the Arabian Desert, Mesopotamia, and the Levant, earning the respect of local tribes and leaders.

Lady Hester Stanhope (1776-1839), an eccentric British noblewoman, left England and journeyed to the Levant, where she lived among the Bedouin tribes and became a powerful figure in local politics.

In the 19th century, women around the world began to challenge traditional gender roles and fight for their rights. We usually hear about activists like Susan B. Anthony, Elizabeth Cady  Stanton, Emmeline Pankhurst in the UK, Hubertine Auclert in France to name a few.

But, through my research I have found that in India, Savitribai Phule (1831-1897) worked to promote women's education and challenge the caste system. Pandita Ramabai , another Indian feminist, fought for women's rights and founded a shelter for widows. In Iran, Táhirih (1814-1852), advocated for women's rights and religious freedom. She is famous for unveiling herself in public, a daring act of defiance against the prevailing social norms. Fatma Aliye Topuz (1862-1936) in the embedded image, was a Turkish novelist, columnist, and women's rights activist. She is considered the first female novelist in the Ottoman Empire and an important figure in early Turkish feminism. Fatma Aliye wrote about the need for women's education and criticized the traditional gender roles in Ottoman society.